


Cape and Sword

by mellyb6



Series: Tis a Women's World [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Porthos and his clothes, Thread and Needles, d'Artagnan is an errand boy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2018-04-20 19:45:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4799990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellyb6/pseuds/mellyb6
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One encounter with bandits does not go as planned and Porthos' clothes get the worst of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cape and Sword

**Author's Note:**

> Still inspired by nettlestonenell's Tumblr post on female representation: http://nettlestonenell.tumblr.com/post/114049003597/female-representation
> 
> And this prompt: the woman who mends your cape
> 
> The title of the story is an allusion to the French translation of "a swashbuckling novel": un roman de cape et d'épée. "Cape" is a transparent word (wow, can you hear the teacher in me using big words!!) and "épée" means "sword."

_The thrill of the chase._ That's what the King said after he returned from hunting.

Porthos has to agree. It is thrilling to ride among the trees, to trample the ground and feel his horse move under its saddle, reins solidly in his hands and feet secured in his stirrups.

It is less thrilling when they are not chasing deers or boars, when it is dark, cold and raining. It is not thrilling when they are chasing bandits when they could have been back in Paris hours ago.

A lower branch lashes at his face, stinging his cheek, making him hiss in pain. His horse leaps forward and he has to pull on the reins to force it in the right direction. He can hear Athos shouting ahead, and d'Artagnan urging his own mount a few paces behind him.

And then they have to dismount because the bushes are too thick. Aramis mumbles and curses as his hat gets stuck in brambles. Athos tells him to shut it. There is movement somewhere in front of them and it's not long before they are engaged in a fight against the three men who have robbed the tavern up the road.

It's a short affair, really. Their opponents are inexperienced, have probably never seen Musketeers so close and it's almost ridiculous how easy they are to overcome. The difficult part is moving about when you cannot see a thing, that your boots and your uniform are tangled in branches, thorns stopping you from advancing or thrusting your sword the way you want.

Porthos lifts his hand, thankful for his gloves, takes a few steps toward the thief he has just pushed to the ground, the tip of his sword to his chest, and it should be over. Something prevents him from advancing and he swears in frustration, swaps at a branch, swirls around, his sword lashing out.

“Dammit!” He can hear fabric ripping, and the more he struggles to break free, the more it is torn apart. Eventually, he unfastens his blue cape, and finishes off his opponent by punching him square in the face. He should not have laughed, not when he was overpowered and so close to being made a prisoner.

“Who's idea was it to take this road on the way back?” Porthos grumbles once they have managed to tie up the three bandits and they have retrieved their horses. Clouds move in the sky and the moon offers some visibility. Aramis is scrambling to extract twigs from his hair.

“I told you it was a shortcut,” he replies, avoiding Porthos' glare. It's not his fault if there happened to be a tavern which had just been robbed on the very road they travelled on. Three (and a half) Musketeers could not ignore the poor man's demand for help.

“A shortcut, right. We should have been in Paris three hours ago.”

“The innkeeper will certainly offer us a free room given that we have rescued his stolen money,” Athos grumbles, not at all pleased by the delay. He hopes there is a magistrate in the village to whom he can deliver his new burden. He does not intend to keep watch during the night to stop them from escaping.

 

* * *

 

It's early morning the next day when the four friends wake up. They crammed in the same room on the upper floor of the inn. A small room but enough beds for them all. In the weak February sunlight, they can finally assess the damage made the previous night. D'Artagnan's face looks as if it has been lacerated and he complains when Aramis applies some alcohol to clean off the blood. The others are unharmed.

“How on Earth did you manage this?” Aramis pulls on a tiny thorn stuck on d'Artagnan's neck, close to his right ear.

“I think I tripped.”

“On roots or on your own feet?” Porthos jests. The younger glares, winces once more.

“At least I won't have to walk around wearing only rags.” He gestures to the other's cape, thrown carelessly on a chair with the rest of Porthos' equipment. There's a large gash in it that he must have made with his own sword. Some of the buttons are gone as well.

“Shut it.” But his friend is right: it does look like a rag. Not fit for a Musketeer. He groans. He only has one cape, and _it_ is cold. He will not go around on patrols without it, and wearing his parade one on a regular basis would certainly end in a disaster.

“Can I borrow some money, Athos?” He hates doing this, but he's short on funds and mending a cape is not his specialty. His friend rummages in his pocket, a coy smile on his lips.

“Juliette must love you. Aren't you her best customer?”

“Yes, how many times have you come to her in the last months?” Aramis chimes in, grinning like the idiot that he is.

“One too many. And she did tell me to take better care of my things.”

“Oh! You're in trouble, then!”

“Who's Juliette?” d'Artagnan inquires, checking his face in a small mirror hanging on the wall. It's cracked and some pieces are missing but it's enough to assess the damage to his features. He can see Porthos looking at him behind his shoulder, Porthos cocking his head, thinking, before a bright smile illuminates his face.

“He doesn't know Juliette, does he?” Athos and Aramis shrug. “That's excellent! You're coming with me as soon as we're in Paris!”

* * *

d'Artagnan knocks on the door Porthos indicated, dubious and unsure. It swings open and he is faced with a elderly man who studies him from head to toe.

“Yes?”

“Hello. My name is d'Artagnan. I'm with the Musketeers. Well, I'm not a Musketeer myself, not yet, but....”

“Have you come to see my wife?” the man interrupts his rambling.

“I've been told to come and see Juliette.”

“That's my wife all right. Got something to mend?”

“This cape, yes.”

“Come in then. There's no point standing there in the street.”

D'Artagnan is ushered into the dark house, and he follows the man down a corridor until they reach an animated room.

“Work for you, Juliette!” he shouts over the raucous of a woman trying to shush a baby. The young man takes it all in, the family gauging him curiously, the dog sleeping by the fireplace, the table set even if dinner appears to be over, and the woman who rises up from her seat, all smiles and open arms.

“Are you a Musketeer?” she asks him as soon as she notices the cape he cluches to his chest. “Not yet, but I help them sometimes and this happened.” He sheepishly presents the blue garment and she shakes her head once she sees what the problem is. D'Artagnan had thought she would take it and he would have to come by in a couple of days. Instead, she makes him sit down at the table while she goes to find her thread and needles.

He is offered some warm soup and wine. Juliette's husband is more than happy to converse with him. He has a thousand questions, about Gascony, about farming, about cattle.

“Is this your cape?” Juliette asks at one point, interrupting the discussion of which crop is best.

“Yes,” d'Artagnan lies.

“You're allowed pieces of a Musketeer uniform even if you're not one yourself?” It sounds as if she already knows the answer to her question.

“I borrowed it and I would hate for his rightful owner to find it in such a pitiful state,” he lies again.

“Is that so? Would that owner happens to be named Porthos?”

“.....Who?” But his face is flushed and she laughs softly, shakes her head and resumes her sewing. Porthos is going to give him hell.

“You are not a very good liar, young man. But you're a great friend.”

“He seemed so afraid to bring it himself that I didn't know what else to do but help him,” d'Artagnan confesses. It makes her husband, Marcel, chuckles.

“My wife does have this effect on people.”

“Porthos is my main client, if you must know. I don't know what this poor boy does all day long, but his clothing never seems to last more than a few weeks before it needs mending.”

“He should learn to be a seamstress himself.”

“That would be a shame. We love having Porthos around. You tell him that next time you see him.”

She pats his leg fondly. There are wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, laughing marks, marks of a well-lived life. Her eyes are gentle as she gazes at him and the way she hums to settle her grandson in the crib by her side tells him that she takes the best care of her family. She must be loved by everyone.

“Thank you very much, Madame,” he tells her once she is done and she gives him back the cape. You can clearly see where it was mended, but the buttons look like they had never fallen off in the first place.

“Please, call me Juliette. They all do. And I hope to see more of you in the future, even if your clothes don't need my attention. Whose money is this? Athos'?” she asks after d'Artagnan drops the coins in her extended hand. She clutches it close to her chest before handing them to her husband who counts them carefully.

“How did you know?” He does not try to lie this time. Instead, he marvels at as well this woman understands his friends and their dynamics.

“I know my boys. Have a good night, d'Artagnan.”

 

* * *

 

“Did she suspect anything?” It's the first thing Porthos wants to know as soon as d'Artagnan is back at the Garrison with the precious cape.

Does _Porthos_ suspect how much he cares for the woman's opinion? How much of a mother she is to him, to all of the helpless Musketeers coming to her? Does he suspect that she cherishes every single one their visits, whoever it might be? He must, because otherwise, he would not be so eager to learn of her reaction, of her attitude. It only took d'Artagnan one evening to understand it, and from he has gathered, the other soldiers are regular in Juliette's house. How could they not? She is sweetness impersonated.

“Not a thing,” he promises, an innocent smile on his face. Porthos nods his approval.

“Excellent.” And it takes d'Artagnan all he has not to burst out laughing.  


End file.
